


Of Empty Falls

by KathyRoland



Series: The Plunge [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyRoland/pseuds/KathyRoland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach happens, there is no happy ending</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Empty Falls

It was close to five in the morning, local time when Sherlock stumbled upon the empty holiday home. He had been trekking for the better part of the night through the land, determined to both get away as fast as possible and leave no trace that he was anywhere other than at the bottom of the falls.

It took mere seconds for him to pick the pathetic lock on the door. Briefly, he scanned the house he had broken into. It hadn’t been lived in for over two months, though the power and utilities were still on and a caretaker came by once a week to look after the place. The care taker wouldn’t be over for another three days. It was perfect then.

Sherlock was tempted to simply collapse on the nearest bed and go to sleep as he hadn’t slept in over at least 48 hours, but he had one last thing to do before he would allow his exhaustion to dictate his actions.

Luckily, the house had a land line connected to it that he could use. Picking up the phone on the table in the sitting room, he dialed his brother’s direct line. He knew if he didn’t pull Mycroft off the search for his body, it would quickly become known that there was no body because Sherlock had never taken the fall.

The line rung and was answered on the second ring.

“Mycroft,” he said “I would appreciate it if I could continue to be dead for the foreseeable future.”

There was a slight exhale on the other end of the line. It was rare for Mycroft to let slip any physical sign of his no doubt buried emotions- Sherlock idly marveled at the show of brotherly affection that action gave in letting Sherlock know how worried Mycroft had been.

“I take it you’re concerned about the man’s network?” He simply replied, his voice as calm as ever.

“Indeed. I estimate that it will take me several months to dismantle it completely, and that’s only if they continue to believe I’m out of the picture. If they were to know I am alive, it might very well be impossible. They would have nothing holding them back from all-out war.”

Mycroft made a sound of acknowledgement. “I’m isolating funds and resources for your use. A car will be there to pick you up in six hours with a reliable driver.”

Sherlock relaxed a little. He would have plenty of time to rest before anyone came, and he could use the car ride for his next stages of planning.

Mycroft wasn’t done, though. “Shall I get in contact with your colleague, or will you be contacting him?”

Sherlock was confused. Mycroft was obviously talking about John, but why? It was better for everyone that John had no idea that Sherlock was alive. Firstly, his acting was atrocious and it would be too easy for his enemies to deduce that Sherlock was not dead. Secondly, John would insist on helping Sherlock, and the best thing he could do to help Sherlock was stay safe in London, away from all the madness. Sherlock needed to know that John stayed safe, otherwise he would be constantly distracted.

He said as much to Mycroft.

In response, Mycroft clicked his tongue. “Physically safe, yes.” He conceded. “But have you thought of what he will go through when he thinks you’re lost to him?”

Sherlock scoffed. “He’s lost plenty of friends to violence when he was Afghanistan, and he hadn’t broken over them. He’ll be fine after a while.”

“You’re underestimating your role in his life.” His brother told him bluntly.

“Enough. I’ve made my decision. If you even think of telling him yourself, I’ll never contact you again, for help or otherwise.”

“Indeed.” Was all Mycroft would say. They ended their call quickly after that, Sherlock never moving in his stubbornness and Mycroft never losing that disappointed tone in his voice.

 

Months passed. Sherlock worked his way steadily through the remnants of Moriarty’s organization, destroying them at each level. While he had a great deal of satisfaction at the work, part of him was constantly lonely and discontented, always noting the absence of John.

Periodically, he would be in contact with his brother to exchange information on his hunt. His brother never again brought up John Watson, and Sherlock didn’t dare to either. Somehow, just thinking of the absence of John made Sherlock sick in a way. He wasn’t about to let Mycroft add to that with his smug superiority complex.

At last, the only target left was a certain ex-military sniper called Moran who was currently holed up somewhere in London. It was time for Sherlock to go home.

 

When he arrived in the city, Sherlock felt like a weight had been lifted. He was met outside of the airport by a familiar assistant of his brothers with her ever present blackberry. Sherlock settled into the back of the car and sat in silence.

He drank in the sights of the city as the car meandered through the long familiar streets to a destination of his brothers choosing.

When he stepped out of the car into the empty ware house and saw his brother for the first time in months, he immediately knew something was off.

His brother looked at him and nodded his head in acknowledgement. “I have several units about to storm the last known location of Col. Moran,” he said. “All intel has stated that he’s still there. In about fifteen minutes, your hunt should be over.”

Sherlock nodded while his mind raced. Something wasn’t right here. Mycroft was holding something back.

“What aren’t you telling me?” He demanded.

His brother didn’t have a single crack in his politician’s façade and simply raised an eyebrow. “Really, Sherlock.” He admonished. “I have told you everything you need to know. We simply have to wait.”

Sherlock huffed angrily. The minutes passed as both brothers stared silently at each other and a lone woman worked on a phone in the background.

“Sir.” Mycroft’s assistant looked up momentarily. “Target has been shot in the altercation. He has been pronounced dead at the scene.”

Mycroft inclined his head regally.

Sherlock felt something in his shoulders loosen. It was done. He could go back home now. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to relax completely. Something was still clearly amiss with his brother.

Mycroft was staring intently at him, analyzing him.

“Well?” Sherlock snarled.

“There is no easy way to say this,” Mycroft began, sorrow covering his voice. “Roughly four weeks ago, Dr. Watson committed suicide. He shot himself in the head. He was dead by the time emergency services arrived.”

Sherlock’s world came crashing down. Dimly, he realized he was abruptly sitting on the warehouse floor, his legs folded under him. Mycroft was beside him in an instant, crouching down to his level. Nothing but kind regret shown on Mycroft’s face as he looked at his brother.

“John’s dead?” A voice that couldn’t have belonged to Sherlock asked.

Sherlock’s mind started shouting at him. He wasn’t able to say goodbye to me, he thought, and now I wasn’t able to say goodbye to him. His mind whirled in recriminations. He had killed John. By keeping John safe, Sherlock had killed John.

Great shudders wracked through his body as he started crying. Tears fell silently down as he reached out and mindlessly held on to his brother. He had done this. It was his fault.

Down in a nameless, abandoned warehouse, a broken man sobbed into his big brother’s embrace as his world ended.

With tears in his eyes, Mycroft held his brother and whispered mindless and empty platitudes.


End file.
